Domestic Etiquette
by SkyKissed
Summary: Some things change when you let another person in your life. Admittedly, these things are not always pleasant. Still, Wash is fairly certain it's worth it.  Wash/Taylor themed snippets centered on the more mundane aspects of life.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Kinda cracky, kinda silly Wash/Taylor fluff. Because I wanted to write some, damn it, even if it is absurd! These are really just little snippets, not really connected except in the fact that they involve little domestic things. It seemed silly to post them separately so you get them all at once. :D

Erm...and as for the last one. I don't PERSONALLY think there's anything much to it but...if you're easily affronted by...shower themed fun times...might not wanna read it. It's not M rated but, there you are.

This is dedicated to my ever lovely, insanely talented partner in crime Inu-midoriko. Because we have the best, craziest conversations ever documented. You can have this and, of course, Taylor, frolicking in the jungle. :D

* * *

><p><em><strong>Domestic Etiquette <strong>_

* * *

><p><strong>Sleeping Arrangements<strong>

Wash is not a peaceful sleeper.

It's not a guess, or a vague statement, or a _feeling_, it's a fact. A god damn dyed in the wool fact, that despite her (some would say) tyrannical, vice like control of her emotions during her waking hours, she tosses and turns in the night more often than a twitchy child. She'd been like that years ago in the service and she is _exactly _like that now.

Admittedly, she is not used to sharing her bed with someone else.

At least that's what she tells herself, and hopes Taylor understands, as she turns onto her other side again. It brings her nose to nose with the man in question and he regards her with a mixture of amusement and idle frustration.

"You good, Wash?"

No. She most certainly is not. And it's his damn fault. He's sleeping on _her _side of the bed, and he's throwing off the tilt of the mattress, and he's _there_, breathing. Being himself. In her space. It's infuriating really, and she lets out a little huff, "Fine, sir." The fact that he chuckles assures her he's in on the lie. Instead of calling her on it, he closes his eyes.

There's something peaceful and open about it and for a moment she's content just to watch him sleep. He looks…younger, less worn. The fact that she's one of the few people to see him so unguarded fills her with a ridiculous surge of delight, utterly undignified for a woman of her age and rank.

"Stop staring, Wash," he mutters, not bothering to open his eyes.

With a sigh (of contentment or dissatisfaction), she returns to her tossing. Lays still for a moment (just long enough to lull Taylor into a false sense of security) and turn again. She grits her teeth. It's the damn side of the bed…it's all…

In the middle of her turn, Taylor clamps an arm around her waist, holding her flush against him, effectively stilling her movement. He nuzzles her neck somewhat affectionately, offsetting his warning squeeze to her middle.

She isn't on her side of the bed. And he's thrown off her mattress hugely. And now he's breathing directly _on_ her neck. However, with her head cushioned on his shoulder, feeling his warmth at her back, and with the air smelling pleasantly of…him, she can't help but feel this is vastly superior. To sleeping alone or in any other manner.

Wash ceases her turning for the remainder of the night.

* * *

><p><strong>Shaving<strong>

The first time he shaves over at her place she simply continues on with her own morning rituals. A part of her knows he has to shave and it's a remarkably trivial task in the grander scheme of things. It's the second time, when her morning is less frantic, that she pauses in the doorway and watches him.

His expression is one of concentration, his eyes always a step ahead of his razor, planning the next stroke. In contrast to some of the other men she's seen, he chooses to use a straight razor for the task. It's more difficult to handle, undoubtedly, but she can't argue with the results. And there's something intoxicating about watching him handle the potentially deadly, gleaming, edge, flick it over his throat without a second thought. It leaves streaks in the white foam but leaves his skin wondrously smooth. Sometimes he hums old songs to pass the time, something she doesn't remember him doing since before Somalia. It somehow manages to make her feel simultaneously older and younger.

She finds she likes it, so she watches him do it more often, even if it slows her routine.

Sometimes, he'll look over at her and chuckle, bemused at her interest.

And sometimes, he'll get a positively fascinating look, his mouth curving up in a delicious smirk and simply watch her right back. Blue eyes meet brown and refuse to break contact, even as his razor slides over the contours of his jaw.

Around the third week or so, she arrives to find him waiting for her, that mischievous look on his face. Without speaking he simply hands her the razor.

"Sir?"

"Think you've been watching long enough, woman. Time to show me what you've learned," he sounds almost like he did nearly two decades earlier, when he'd taken such delight in critiquing her form during their combat training. She arches a brow, indicates he take a seat.

It's a fairly large step, for any couple. No man wants his face torn up; to trust another with that ability bespeaks no small amount of trust. With them it is more than that.

Because he's seen, firsthand, what she's capable of doing with a knife. And, with his eyes closed, the razor gliding over his throat, she could easily end him. If the notion took her that she wanted control of Terra Nova, or would prefer roughing it with Mira and the Sixers, she could carry through. He's fast, but not fast enough to stop her.

A part of him knows she'd never do it; _all_ of her knows that causing even the slightest harm to him would sear her just as badly.

She mimics the strokes he's been using, tracing the patterns from memory and mapping them to her subconscious. She knows the planes of his face well enough to do this with her eyes closed, even if she is relatively unfamiliar with his razor. A few moments later, she surveys her work with a pleased smile.

Taylor runs a hand across his jaw, checking her work in the mirror. He tosses her a rakish sort of smile, taking to razor she's extended to him.

"You do good work, Wash. Might have to use you more often."

He rarely shaves himself after that.

* * *

><p><strong>Morning After: <strong>

Despite officially being a member of the bridal party, Wash is more closely affiliated with the groom. It's really the only explanation as to why she is permitted to attend Mark Reynolds bachelor party. That and Josh needed her house to, as he put it, plan the intimate, low key evening the groom had requested.

At least that's how the kid had presented it to Taylor. However, standing at the still open door to Wash's house with Dr. Shannon, he can't help but think something went awry. The worry that had begun to manifest on the woman's face at the absence of her husband and son (neither they nor the groom had returned) fades, replaced by a curiosity tinged with dread.

Every window in the place is closed, the drapes pulled tight. Wash's meticulously neat home is in shambles, bottles of various flavors of alcohol strewn on every available surface. Some are expensive and some are…combined in manners most would consider positively volatile.

They find both Reynolds and Josh in her living room, curled in on themselves on the sofa, attempting to die silently. When Elizabeth calls out to them, they simply moan and go back to their previous task. Namely, finding a way to bind their faces with the lieutenant's upholstery.

Wash and Shannon are not far away. The commander and the doctor cannot help but share an amused glance; their respective mates are curled on Wash's bed, pillows clasped over their heads. Some sort of juvenile pillow barrier divides the bed in half, erected the night before to assure both parties nothing untoward would occur during the night.

The doctor crosses to her husband, nudging his shoulder gently, "Darling, are you well?" It earns her pained groans from both individuals.

Shannon manages to get out a few words, his speech slurred both by the intense ache in his head and the pillow covering his face, "No. Let us die in peace."

"Gonna kill your son, Shannon," but it lacks some of the steel that would usually imbue her tone. It's surprisingly breathy and exhausted, and sounds very much like the effort causes Wash physical pain. "When I can move again."

Taylor, after a moment's effort, pries the pillow from her grasp, taking in her disheveled appearance. He's seen her drunk perhaps three times over all their years, but never to such an extent. And despite having seen her riddled with bullets and bleeding to death, he doesn't wonder if _this_ is what's going to kill her. Even in her current condition, he can't help but tease her.

"Should of thought of that last night, Wash. Up and at em', you've got patrol."

He isn't going to make her do it. A part of her has to know that. Still, she makes the most pathetic little whine, and it's so _not_ Wash, he can't help but laugh. Deep, full belly laughter.

It causes both Shannon and his lieutenant to cringe. The two exchange sympathetic glances, roll closer to one another. Jim lifts his pillow, and then covers both their faces.

* * *

><p><strong>Showers<strong>

The first time he tries to surprise Wash in the shower does not end well.

Admittedly, the running water was loud and he's been trained to be quiet and _she's_ been trained to react to such attacks but…

Nursing his bruised jaw he can't help but think, maybe, just _maybe_, she overreacted a bit.

The second time, they are both running late and they share simply to save time.

On the third, it is Wash who initiates, reminding him exactly why he is so fond of the woman. He hears her coming, refrains from turning. He's rewarded with her embracing him from behind, her arms snaking around his waist. She hums lowly, the sound echoing up his spine, a pleased sound that carries the cadence of a song he's fond of. Her tongue traces the contours of a scar near his shoulder, a particularly unpleasant one she'd had a hand in mending so many years prior. She's cataloged most of his wounds over the years and it's finally paying off. Her fingers find her favorite, a jagged tear that begins just below his left hip and weaves ominously lower. To be fair, she does deviate course a bit, her breathy chuckle in his ear causing him to groan as much as the placement of her hand.

Wash is mercurial when it comes to her affections, a thing both delightful and frustrating. Sometimes she's almost playful, with her kisses light and surprisingly tender. Sometimes she'll simply smile against his lips. When one of them suffers a wound, or he returns from a trip outside the gates, they are the long, desperate kisses of lovers, belying an intimacy neither of them cares to put to words.

And sometimes it's like this, where nipping transforms to bites, half teasing, half frantic.

When he turns, she catches his lips almost immediately. She miscalculates the distances and in the slick environment they end up colliding with a bit more force. Their lips grind together, and he imagines he hears their teeth click. Painful, but not entirely unpleasant. She teases his lower lip between her teeth, (she's terribly fond of using her teeth, his lieutenant…), perhaps a bit harder than most would consider comfortable. There's something undeniably teasing in the gesture however and he finds himself smiling.

It's a simple thing, pinning her under the faucet. She's not in much of a mood to resist him, or play one of their games for dominance, choosing instead to wraps her legs around him, enjoy his closeness and the heat of the water washing over them. He dips his head, nipping her shoulder.

He receives a throaty reply, closer to a purr than anything else. The thought of his composed, stoic, lieutenant uttering such a sound is almost absurd, and as if echoing his thoughts, she repeats it. The woman's hand are somehow everywhere at once, one minute in his hair, the next splayed across his chest, the next dragging his own to her waist, her breasts. Her lips are little better, at his mouth, then his ear then trailing a sloppy pattern along his jaw, pausing to drag her teeth across the sensitive skin there. It's desperate and maddening and frenetic, and leaves him kissing her forehead rather than her lips momentarily.

When he finally manages to wrestle her into a proper position, she pauses, her head tipped lightly to the side. It's an almost surreal image, undoubtedly beautiful. The early morning light cuts through the window at precisely the correct angle to illuminate her face, bring some fey light to her dark eyes. Water beads catch the light, leaving traceable patterns down her neck, chest, and stomach. With her black hair hanging damply in front of her eyes, framing her face just so, she's lovelier than he's even seen her. She purses her lips, all the teasing gone, takes his face in her hands.

He isn't one for flowering words, and she isn't one for dramatic images or desperate romance. Still, she leans her forehead against his. The next kiss is feather light, fleeting, sweet and nearly chaste despite their…situation. It says things neither will vocalize. In return, he nuzzles her cheek. The moment passes and Wash's temperament changes again. Her kisses shift back to nips, signifying their little heart to heart is over.

They arrive significantly late for work that morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Heh, evidently I'm continuing this. Because it's fluffy and silly, and I LIKE FLUFFY SILLY THINGS. :D Again, these aren't really related to each other, just short little snippets that can be interpreted as _arguably_ amusing. :D

Only three this time, sorry! But hopefully you'll enjoy them, regardless!

* * *

><p><strong>Laundry<strong>

* * *

><p>They can't live together. Hell, they can't even really <em>stay<em> together. Not yet at least.

It's an inconvenience that leads to them stealing glances at each other, occasionally subtle touches. It leaves them with very few nights to spend in each other's company, reduced to the rare times when there is overlap in their schedules or off time. An event that occurs once a week, if they're very lucky.

One morning, the rush ends with Wash stuffing one of his shirts into her overnight bag. He doesn't see it again until their next meeting, though she could have returned it at anytime. His lieutenant does not often wear anything to bed (at least when he's with her) but is not above donning one of his shirts when the mood takes her. When he asks about it, she simply shrugs. She doesn't like to talk about it (which assures him the reasons behind her repeated thefts are based in emotion rather than reason), and he doesn't push the subject. There is, after all, a certain charm to seeing her in something of his, her elegant figure draped in too much fabric. It gives them the impression that he's around her, in one way or another, always.

Her favorite shirt is an old one, back from his days in the military as a private, or a corporal (he doesn't remember which). It's rather ratty, as far as his clothes go, worn with a tear near the bottom hem. The colors are all but faded. For whatever reason, however, he often finds it's gone missing. It'll be replaced in his drawer a week or so later (once it ceases to smell of him and begins to adapt to her), and a different one will have been "misplaced."

Sometimes he'll set one out for her to take, leaving it on his dresser while she showers. Sometimes she'll leave him something in return. Her favorite hair tie or some other such thing. One morning, he teases her that it's an unfair trade.

She simply smirks at him.

The next time he comes home it's with Shannon and Reynolds in tow. He wouldn't normally invite them in but they have a meeting to get to and Reynolds had taken a nasty spill during their excursion outside the gate, leaving him covered in mud. It's faster to simply loan him a shirt then sending him home, running the risk he'll be accosted by the eldest Shannon girl.

The kid emerges from his room, looking more amused than either man have ever seen him. From his extended hand dangles a pretty slip of a thong, lacy and black. It's feminine and impractical, yet somehow has Wash written all over it. It says plain and simple and with her trademark deadpan humor, _never say I don't leave you anything_. He arches a brow.

"Never took you as a thong sort of guy, Commander." It's insubordinate, but hardly mean spirited.

Taylor doesn't even bother looking up, simply deadpans, "It's Wash's."

It's a hell of a way to announce to them that he is in a relationship with his lieutenant (though Shannon's suspected and likely worked it out already), but entirely worth it to watch the kids face twist in a mixture of horror and revulsion, flinging his self proclaimed sisters garment away from him with comical vitriol.

He doesn't return it to her the next time she visits.

* * *

><p><strong>Mornings <strong>

* * *

><p>Wash hates mornings.<p>

Considering her line of work, this is inconvenient, but she can't help it. Her instructors, nearly two decades earlier, had assured her that over time her body would adjust. Either they hadn't known what they were talking about or had simply sold her some feel good garbage that had never panned out. She still woke feeling hazy, the urge to bury her head in her pillow until hours later unshakable.

It's somewhat irritating, then, that Taylor loves them so well. The man is practically alive with energy, rolling out of bed none the worse for wear. He'll smile at her and shower and dress and be on his merry way with little to no lolly gagging. He doesn't lounge in bed, he doesn't stretch, he doesn't ask for another ten minutes. He's simply up and about his day.

She hates it, in a way, because it can't be anything other than a sin to be so active at such an ungodly hour. She hates it because she can't help but feel inspired by it. Little by little it's easier to get herself out of bed, even though she remembers it's something she loathes. She's fine with climbing out of bed for patrol but he drags her from her slumber just for the hell of it. He'll tow her outside with that amused sort of half-smirk, and rest his hands on her hips, leaning against her back, just to watch the sun rise.

It reminds him, every day, that this is their new start. He takes comfort in it.

And because he's comforted by it, slowly she is as well.

It's for that reasons, then, that she's surprised to awaken to a ray of light cutting through her window, bathing her in its warmth. From how refreshed her body feels it's obviously later in the morning. She stretches a bit, slowly. To her amazement, his warmth remains at her back, his head still leaned against hers.

When she goes to move, Taylor's arm tightens around her waist, drawing her back to him, placing a kiss on her neck. He lets out a heavy sigh, his breathing slowing as sleep encroaches on him once more. She waits a moment before trying to free herself again.

And again, he draws her back to him. He's smiling (she doesn't have to see it, she can feel it, and it fills her with a most irrational warmth), his thumb tracing lazy circular patterns over her hip. Evidently he's feeling lazy, or perhaps he's simply indulging her. Either way it's charming.

She turns in his embrace, finds him watching her. His blue eyes are twinkling with something inarguably akin to mischief, "Sir?"

"You're stayin' in bed this morning, Wash. Commanders orders."

She can't help but laugh, throws one of her legs lazily over his, her arm wrapping around his chest. Taylor drifts off again and after a moment she joins him.

* * *

><p><strong>Sick Day<strong>

* * *

><p>For whatever reason, a cold sweeps Terra Nova that winter. It's nothing life threatening, but it is an annoyance, if nothing else. Suddenly the command center is full of irritated officers, all swiping inelegantly at their noses. He's managed to escape it, but Wash gets hit particularly hard.<p>

She rarely gets sick and so when she does she's particularly irritable. Shannon steers clear of her (she's convinced it's his fault she's taken ill. He'd had it first, and if she hadn't gone out for drinks with him, she never would have caught the damn thing); Reynolds finds ways to report without chancing her company.

That leaves him. And for whatever reason, he can't help but smirk at her as she sits on the opposite side of his desk. Dark bags rim her eyes; her skin is coated with the omnipresent sheen of sweat. Her hair is perhaps less professionally bound, bits of it escaping her pony tail to fall in front of her eyes. She swats the offending strands irritably away, letting out a huff of frustration when they simply fall right back.

She's exhausted and sick and irritable, and can't do her damn work because her damn nose keeps threatening to drip. She's a soldier who's taken more than her share of wounds but this, this is infinitely worse. This is simple irritation and perpetual exhaustion and feels like weakness. It's irrational but she hates encountering something she can't defend herself from or fight.

He's doesn't tell her to take the day off; if she wants it she'll simply say so, and it saves her wounded pride. He doesn't ask if she wants something to drink; she simply finds a mug of broth waiting for her when she arrives. He doesn't ask if she's feeling well (and she sure as hell isn't), just reaches across the desk without looking to give her hand a quick squeeze.

She refuses to give up her patrol and so off into the wilderness she goes, dripping nose and all. He pretends that the worry in his gut is simply his immune system fighting off the same sickness she's contracted and nothing else. When she arrives home, later than usual, she's soaked. Her posture is ramrod straight as she moves past him, silently fuming, as she sheds her drenched clothing. He doesn't ask if she's alright, simply replaces the uniform she's set out for herself with a pair of loose trousers and one of his old shirts, making sure he's gone before she emerges from her shower.

When she crawls into bed that night, her drippy nose has evolved into a scratchy throat, bringing with it a wheezy cough. He imagines it's a close to miserable or pathetic as Wash is going to get, her mouth almost perpetually twisted into a scowl. Her cold, natural as it is, shames her.

So he doesn't mention with it when she twines one of her legs with his, her feet surprisingly cold against his skin. And he doesn't mention it when he feels her attempt to stifle a shiver, her head tucked beneath his chin.

He _does _mention it, however, when he feels the inkling of an itch in the back of his throat the next morning.

* * *

><p>Hmm….I might end up doing more of these but I can't really think of anything at the moment. If a domestic type thing occurs to you, go ahead and tell me and I'll see if I can't write it up, WashTaylor style. Because the only thing better than two sexy BAMF's is…

Erm…two domestic BAMFs? I dunno. xD


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Evidently there's something BAMF fans find sexy fine about cooking. This amuses me, because I HAD a cooking themed snippet slotted for the first chapter. Except when I went to write it, it came out being one sentence:

_Wash and Taylor don't cook. The end. _

LOL. But the one here is an alternate. Far less verbally intricate, mind you, but it's here regardless. Thanks to everyone who offered suggestions last time. You're terribly lovely. And this one goes out to Zoe6, a fabulously talented, lovely lady, who you no doubt know, who asked for something with Jim in it. Because he's frakkin' fantastic!

**Worry** and **Home** are actually connected to one another. Shocking, I know. Rambling done, read on!

* * *

><p><strong>Cooking<strong>

* * *

><p>Often they are too busy to settle down and prepare meals. Usually this leads to them eating in the commissary, sometimes simply picking something up from the market vendors on the way home. It seems lazy but neither of them cares overly much. Having spent the majority of their lives in the military, living off food that boasts flavors which would make weak stomached individuals gag, anything that keeps them fed is perfectly decent.<p>

It's only after Jim and Elisabeth invite them over for dinner that she takes a renewed interest in cooking. Standing in their kitchen, she'd been dissecting (Maddy's words, not her own) vegetables for the salad when Jim had arrived home. He'd thrown her a look, part amusement, part feigned suspicion as he neared.

"You cook, lieutenant?"

"Occasionally."

His next question had tested the boundaries of her patience, "Huh. And is…uh, the food _safe_?"

Yes, the damn food was safe. She'd been making a _salad_. How the hell did one go wrong with a salad? The man didn't even have the decency to look cowed by her glare (he's one of the few that wouldn't think twice about teasing her even when she's armed, knife poised) and simply smiles.

So here she is, expertly dicing meats, preparing dinner. She's cooked for the past week and, frankly, she's getting pretty damn good if she does so say. It certainly tastes better than anything available in the commissary and, despite the added time it takes, especially after already long days, she finds it remarkably soothing.

When she first arrives home, her arms full of groceries, face positively determined, Taylor favors her with an odd glance from over the top of the data pad he's perusing. Otherwise he leaves her be. Cooking's not exactly a team sport, and her kitchen, while spacious, is less manageable with more bodies in it. If she's being entirely honest, a part of her appreciates his detachment. The part of her that demands control and oversight in all things would not appreciate his interference.

By the fifth day, his curiosity gets the better of him. He arrives home early, settling quietly at the kitchens island. She's humming some tune to herself, hips swaying to music only she can hear. He holds no doubts that if her recruits saw this display they'd be infinitely less frightened of her. She only indulges in such things when she thinks she's alone, cautious still even around him.

He refrains from announcing his presence (she's still wielding a spatula, turning her simmering vegetables in the pan before adding garlic. Not for a moment does he doubt that if he made a sound that utensil would come flying at his head, her defensive training kicking in.), leans on his elbows and watches.

He watches again on the sixth, joins her on the seventh, and though she scowls a bit at first she allows it. He joins her nearly every day after that.

Oddly, though his touch is hardly suited for…more delicate endeavors (her mind involuntarily flashes back to his attempts at stitching a recruit's shoulder and she suppresses a shudder), he's a remarkably proficient aid in the kitchen. He doesn't try to wrest control from her, content to watch her determined expression, her pleasure when her newest experiments comes together. Cooking is for Wash what most everything is: a challenge to be conquered, a battle to be won.

There is perhaps only one downside to letting him help her, and she uses the term incredibly loosely.

When she turns from opening the refrigerator, Taylor's there. He halts her progress with a hand on her hip, leans in and kisses her, moves away. It's not a deep kiss but it leaves her uncomfortably flustered, regardless. Sometime later, when she's dicing a handsome pair of apples, she feels him move behind her, fingers ghosting over her lower back. He never quite leans into her but she can feel him there, mirroring her movements, encroaching on her, but never _touching_.

He repeats the maneuver at random intervals throughout the process, occasionally against her neck, once across her upper arm. Never touching, just a ghost of warmth across her skin as she prepares their meal.

She's almost finished (it takes longer than usual with his antics, and the meal itself is more intricate. With a less than subtle desire for revenge she'd invited the Shannon's to share it with them) when her control snaps. Amusingly, it has nothing to do with him. He's just sitting there on the other side of the island, having forsaken his game, reading, oddly at peace. He looks up at her, smiles absently.

Their history can be documented through war, both are souls forged and strengthened (or steeled) by it. It's in their blood; it's who they are. They'd be restless, living a so called _average_ life.

But there's something so…comforting, about him sitting there, in _their_ home, watching her cook. So trivial and mundane, and yet entirely so foreign to her, something others take for granted that she's never had. She purses her lips in consideration before crossing to him, says nothing in warning, and kisses him in a reversal of his earlier game. Because she can and because the novelty of being able to touch the man she loves whenever she pleases has yet to wear thin.

Neither comment on it, and she returns to her cooking.

* * *

><p><strong>Worry<strong>

* * *

><p>It's rather commonly known around Terra Nova that Lieutenant Washington becomes distinctly more…<em>edgy<em>, whenever her commander is OTG. Her stoicism remains, undoubtedly, as it is as much a part of her as the color of her eyes, but there is something in her posture, in the way she holds herself, hidden away beneath that veneer of calm that bespeaks of the worry swimming just below the surface. Her features are more severe, her temper is shorter, her orders more curt, her senses sharper.

Easy to explain away if it didn't occur each time he took his leave.

What is _less _commonly known is that her absence affects him every bit as strongly. There's a tenseness to his posture that's at odd with the lazy grace he casually exhibits, his hand clenching and unclenching absently by his side. A feeling reminiscent of loss is pushed to the dark recesses of his mind, an itch that won't abate until she's back and accounted for. Though he is painfully aware of her strength, her ability to survive even in the most dangerous of situations, he can't help the way his imagination trails off, documents all the possible ways she could have been injured or killed without his knowledge. It takes a perverse pleasure in considering whether he'd be able to find her in that wilderness (even with his near paranoia, it's answered with an adamant yes. He would always find her, no matter how impossible it seemed. He'd done it before.)

More importantly, he counts down the hours till he can send a search team out. Even if it isn't needed. Not till forty eight hours of radio silence.

She's been silent for thirty-six.

He runs a hand though his hair. He hates this; this being trapped here. What's more, in her absence he cannot even leave to search. Terra Nova is his legacy and, more than that, his home. He is only truly confident, comfortable, leaving something so precious to him under her care.

Thirty-six hours. Never should have sent her out, especially not with Shannon.

_Especially. Not._ With. _Shannon_.

One of their research outposts had gone dark. It'd been a while since either of them had left the sanctuary of the settlement and so off they'd gone, Jim assuring (as was his custom) Elisabeth everything would be fine. Wash had simply given his arm a brief squeeze, offering him a nod. It should have been a routine task. Hell, that was why he'd sent the two of them. But they have yet to report back.

Thirty-_seven _hours.

Wash always reports in. If she's bleeding from a head wound, her insides hanging out, she'll still make sure he knows what's happening. Even Shannon, while far less strict about regulation, has the decency to call every once in a while. That neither has done so only fuels his desire to scour the jungle for them (_them_, not _her_, his mind insists).

Eleven hours till he can consider sending a search team.

Eleven more hours, dealing with a worried Shannon family and his own rampant paranoia. He considers pouring himself a drink, thinks better of it. He can't have his senses dulled, not when she's out there. He takes a deep breath, engrosses himself in the dossiers on his desk.

Eleven more hours.

* * *

><p><strong>Home<strong>

* * *

><p>From the tower he's able to make out two figures walking down the road towards Terra Nova.<p>

Walking. Wash and Shannon are _walking_.

He tries not to think about what situations could lead to them abandoning their rover and focuses instead on driving out to meet them. They don't seem overly concerned, an arm thrown (rather awkwardly considering the disparities in height) over the others shoulder. The height difference is easily excused, Shannon is bent nearly at the waist and Wash's head is thrown back.

The scout at the gate had interpreted their posture as signs of injury.

They are, in fact, laughing. Positively howling, as uncharacteristic as it is. Taylor stops the rover, stepping out alongside the worried Dr. Shannon. She simply shakes her head, not sure whether to smile or sigh. Taylor settles on smiling.

"Well damn, Wash, you look like hell."

And she does. At his voice his lieutenant stifles her laughter to a small snicker, beaming at him. Blood streams from both her nostrils, an unflattering purple rimming her eyes, spreading unattractively across the bridge of her nose; there's a mottled yellowish bruise beginning to take shape across her left cheek. Shannon is little better, sporting a furious black eye and split lip. For whatever reason, both of their armor shows signs of tearing, angry claw marks visible in the protective garment.

"Mind telling me what's so funny, lieutenant?" The two share a glance and back to snickering they go. His patience wearing thin (it's their insubordinate behavior, obviously, not his worry over how much blood she's lost); his tone is pitched more for an order than a question.

Elisabeth steps forward, frowning as she inspects her husband's face, "I have to agree with the, Commander. What happened to the pair of you?"

Jim shrugs, "The usual; local wildlife."

He watches Wash make an inelegant pass at her nose, the dabbing motion succeeding in little more than smearing crimson across her cheek. He favors her with a fierce scowl, "You're tellin' me a dinosaur broke my lieutenant's nose?"

"Oh, no. I did that."

If looks could kill, the good doctor would be all but widowed. His threatening step forward is stopped only by Wash's chuckle and her hand on his arm. She throws Shannon a glare, "We stumbled upon a group of Sixer's, sir. Bastard got lucky. Once we were finished, Shannon set it for me." She shakes her head blithely, "Didn't think I'd find a worse medic than you, sir. Shannon's somehow managed it."

The man nods, not at all affected by the commander's glare, "Yeah. That's sounds much better." And they lapse off into chuckles again.

Wash's grin is positively wicked, accentuated by the gore marring her features, "We stumbled across Mira. Wish you could have seen her face, sir."

"Right now I'm more concerned about yours, Wash," he tilts her head, sighing. Her nose might have been set but it has to hurt like hell. From the swelling he doesn't wonder if it doesn't require additional attention. The cuts across her back most certainly need them. But she's smiling, entirely too happy, willing to placate him and permit his inspection of her person. It's when he glances down that he notices the knuckles of her left hand are an angry purple black. When he meets her gaze expectantly, she smirks.

They'd met Mira in the wild. He should have seen her face…

He doesn't bother trying to hide the smile that turns his lips. Wash has (he knows this from experience) a hell of a left hook. Chances are the Sixers, or at least their leader, won't be attacking anytime soon.

Jim accepts the embrace offered by his wife. Elisabeth leans his head down, places a gentle kiss on his maltreated eye, "Welcome home, you silly man."

Wash accepts the nod offered by her commander, the warmth in her eyes reminiscent of the sentiment behind the gesture. He smiles, squeezing her arm lightly, lingering perhaps longer than propriety dictates, "Welcome home, lieutenant."

* * *

><p><strong>Dancing<strong>

* * *

><p>Neither Wash nor Taylor dance in public. A part of it is due to rank, some to reputation, and some to personal choice.<p>

It's for this reason that despite the festivities going on around them, Wash remains seated, nursing her second drink of the evening, a contented smile on her face. Most everyone else in the colony is dancing, swirling around in a half mad flailing of limbs, some managing to stay in time with the music, others merely trying. There's a lightness and a gaiety to the whole of it that lifts her spirits. In this moment, with the sun just setting on the horizon, bathing the world in pinks and oranges, it's easy to believe Terra Nova the idealistic world it ought to be. To forget about the Sixers, the future, the constant threat of the jungle right outside their door, and all the damn dinosaurs.

Inevitably her eyes find themselves drawn to Reynolds, Maddy in his arms. The kids face is undeniably happy, but there's a deep concentration in his eyes that runs counter to it. Anyone else might have missed it; Alicia sees it for what it is.

He's counting the steps to the dance out in his head.

For all his skill as a soldier, and some as a musician, he's hopelessly devoid of talent where dancing is concerned. As he'd informed, when he'd arrived at her door not a week earlier, panicked by the upcoming Harvest Festival, he'd never really thought he'd have need of it. The memory amuses her, the embarrassed flush in his cheeks as he'd practically begged her to teach him enough to keep him from embarrassing himself in front of his dream girl.

Contrary to popular belief (or perhaps assumption) Wash _is_ a remarkably adapt dancer. Perhaps the only one aware of it, in all Terra Nova, is Taylor, and even his experiences are limited to a handful. Once, when she'd turned twenty one and his squad had taken her out drinking. The memory has her grimacing; the image of his expression, part curiosity, and part amusement as the gunnery chief hoisted her atop the table and her subsequent demonstration of her…abilities. Another time, an impromptu number brought on by sheer relief. A third time at his anniversary celebration, which had doubled as the only time she'd ever seen him indulge in the activity.

At least until she'd taken to instructing Reynolds.

They'd managed to shove the majority of her furniture to the walls, creating a large enough space for them to practice in secret (he to hide his lack of ability, her to hide her proficiency). Taylor had taken to watching her out of the corner of his eye, chuckling at the boys hasty apologies and her scowls as her foot was tread upon time after time. Eventually, once Mark had the steps down, it's a simple appreciation for the art that flits across his features. And a warm smile once Alicia praises the kid, pulling him into an impulsive half embrace, once he's finished under her tutelage.

By the time the festival rolls round, Mark's spent hours practicing. Hours to impress the girl.

Only it's painfully obvious Maddy Shannon has never danced before. She protests the first time he asks her, whines a bit the second, and is nearly drug out there after a long while. Her cheeks flush a bright pink, hands clutching his arms. She whispers something to him and he smiles, placing a comforting hand on her lower back.

Maddy misses a step, treads squarely on his toes. He simply smiles. After a moment, he bends his head near her ear, and Alicia can make out a few of the words. He's walking her threw it. The girl's expression becomes determined as she follows his instructions. Soon, they're both smiling, moving inelegantly across the floor, not much caring about whoever sees them or their lack of skill.

"Don't think even you can salvage that kid's dancing, Wash." She smiles, inclining her head lightly to the side in agreement. Taylor's leaning against the side of her table, his hand resting on the surface behind her shoulder, "Then again, don't think you need to."

Reynolds stumbles, and the Shannon girl laughs. It's impossible not to smile at the site of it.

She feels his fingers brush her shoulder gently as he kneels beside her, leans in till his mouth is near her ear, "May I have this dance, lieutenant?" She arches a brow, throws a glance at the kids stumbling about and figures why the hell not. If they look like that and aren't bothered why should she be?

She accepts his preferred hand with a nod, allows him to lead her away from the party a ways, places one hand on his arm, the other near his waist. It's the second time, in all their years, she's seen him dance. Once with his wife, once with her; her overzealous heart does not let this go unnoted.

Neither Wash nor Taylor dance in public. For once they ignore their own rules.

* * *

><p><strong>Family<strong>

* * *

><p>Lucas returns to Terra Nova with the aplomb only a Taylor can manage, the Sixers in tow. The kid (she wonders at her use of the word and the feelings it evokes. He's her age, why should she use it?) looks no different than when she'd last seen him, barring a bit of dirt. When he stands across from the Commander (<em>her<em> Taylor) it only serves to highlight the disparity between father and son.

Despite his age, Taylor is strength and confidence personified, his eyes steely, his manner professional. He holds his head high. He wears black, his armor glinting under the planets harsh sun. Regardless of rank or title, he is a leader.

Lucas has neither his father's strength nor build. The polarity is only more striking now. He is thin, small, his features heavily favoring his mother. The cloth of his apparel to contrast the metal of his fathers. He has no rank, no title, but remains a leader.

It's in the eyes where the resemblance is, the same blue, the same determination. Taylor's do not quit, do not surrender, do not yield either to reason or unfeasible odds. It's an impossible stubbornness as much as anything else, as easy to hate as it is to admire.

It's how she knows nothing will come of this meeting. Neither father nor son will cave; subjugate their will to the other. The glint in Lucas' eye does not bother concealing the loathing there.

Wash stands at her Commander's right, poised at his side, ready to leap into action. Her hand never leaves the weapon at her hip. Shannon is at his left, doing much the same. No blood binds them together, but the two are more than willing to offer their lives for him.

No one stands behind Lucas. Mira and her people are there, yes, and there is concern written on the other woman's face, yes. With that Wash can sympathize. But whatever the Sixer woman's feelings, she remains back a ways. There, but not entirely tied to him.

The son pushes, the father rebuffs. Nothing will come of it. Few are surprised when the younger Taylor simply turns, nodding to his companions. It's nothing more than a test. They leave, though Lucas throws a final dark glance over his shoulder.

Shannon places a friendly hand on the commander's shoulder. Wash does nothing, noting the grief burning there beneath the surface. Family has failed him.

She waits until they are safely back within the command center, alone. It is only then that she takes his face in her hand, leans her forehead gently against his. She'd had no real family before Terra Nova. She has one now. She presses a kiss to his chin, nuzzles his cheek.

Despite his grief, his disappointment, his arms come up around her. He sighs, leans into her hair.

His son has failed him, yes. His family has not.

* * *

><p><strong>Sky: Oh god. I wanted to try my hand at MarkMaddy and that's why you got "Dance," the snippet so obscenely sugary sweet it…I don't even KNOW. It's also the reason you got the arguably more serious "Family." Because things were too happy. Someone write some angst. I need something to counteract the tooth ache this brought on. **


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **And we're back! This is like my relaxing little fic, all sweet and light and easy. :D

And by popular demand (damn you, you beautiful, lovable devils!), you get your pregnant Wash snippets. Ugh. There are actually TWO of them (see how nice I am?) here since the laws of balance dictated if I write something uber fluffy then well…I'll let you draw your own conclusions. You may also decide if you think the pregnancy snippets are connected to each other.

A thank you to: Pixie Queen Mesa for Paperwork, and everyone who wanted pregnant Wash. All of you, really, for being lovely things…even if you're making me write baby-fic. O_O Which may or may not be terribly out of character.

* * *

><p><strong>Domestic Etiquette<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Scars<strong>

There are the occasional moments where Taylor doesn't wonder if certain individuals are more suited (destined) for each other. It's silly, overly idealistic, and entirely too hopeful for a soldier such as himself. It's only during these rare peaceful interludes that he allows himself to indulge such…flowery trains of thought.

Wash remains asleep beside him, one of her legs thrown lazily across his own, an arm across his chest. Her left hand is lost somewhere down near the wrist he has obligingly moved closer to her, their fingers tangled together. It's an amusing sort of contradiction, all at once possessive and nearly insecure. Almost as if she's still frightened he'll disappear over the course of the night. Silly, really, as he never left her before. Not now and not for the last three weeks they have spent together.

He feels her shift slightly in his arms, smiles as she subconsciously snuggles into his chest. She stares up at him briefly before letting out a pleased sigh, returning her head to his shoulder. Yes, he was still there. No, he had not left in the night.

Wash says nothing as her senses return to her, the lack of danger or any pressing issue allowing her to adjust to the waking world a bit more languidly. She rolls, smirks as she settles herself on top of him, rests her chin on his chest. If her added weight gives him any difficulty he refuses to mention it. They don't speak and so she turns to one of her favorite hobbies: logging each of his various scars to memory. It's almost amusing to watch her, how's silently she's content to trace the damaged flesh beneath her fingers, tenderly grazing each scar.

When she reaches a particularly ugly looking one on his shoulder she pauses, brow arched. He chuckles, "Before I met you. Got it in a scuffle…some place or other. Think it was…a knife. Maybe a bottle."

"A bottle?"

"Can't fault a man for improvising."

She chuckles but doesn't comment. She slides lower, adjusts herself so she's straddling his thighs. He rests his hands steadily on her hips, thumbs brushing over her skin. Despite their promising positions and their nudity there's very little on her face to denote sexual interest. Wash's head is simply inclined to the side, almost curious. The back of her fingers brush across his ribs. The scar there is raised, the damaged flesh still an angry purple white despite the years. "And this one?"

"Slasher. You treated it." He knows she takes pride in her work. He should have died. She'd saved him. Not for the first time. Not simply physically. His words cause her to smile, and with her dark hair hanging in her face the expression is singularly lovely. He moves one of his hands, brushes a mark below her left breast. Wash has enough scars of her own. "I remember this one."

"Somalia," It's all she says. They've both put enough distance between themselves and the war but that doesn't mean she's eager to discuss her brush with death. He nods, his fingers gentle as they trace the marking.

They've played this game for years, showing off their various battle scars. It's a map of where they've been, what they've done. This is simply a new iteration of what they've always shared, though he finds he enjoys the intimacy of this far more. He knows each of her scars; she remembers every one of his.

He pauses, however, when his eyes fix on a shallow marking near her heart. It's a bit too high and too far to the right to have put her in any great deal of danger but it's close enough to merit his attention. Not a bullet, not a puncture wound. For the life of him he can't remember where she'd got it. She fidgets uncomfortably when he touches it.

"You," she mutters, bending to kiss him. It both is and isn't the truth. True, in that the scar itself owes itself to him, false in that he had simply been reacting to an existing wound. The memory returns to him. She'd been shot, bleeding profusely. He'd…overreacted. The bullet, in no small part due to her armor, had failed to pierce her all the way through, becoming lodged in her skin. Without pausing to think better of it (and only catching her eyes briefly to ask permission) he was kneeling at her side, his knife in the gash, prying the damn bullet out.

He'd left his mark on her all those years ago. There's something like poetic irony in its placement and he finds it pleases him. He doesn't mind being so near her heart.

From the pleased little humming sound she makes when he brushes his lips across it, Wash doesn't either.

* * *

><p><strong>Snack<strong>

* * *

><p>Wash is exhausted. Absolutely, completely, one hundred percent bone tired, exhausted. With the commander OTG, causing god only knows what havoc out in the jungle, she'd pulled a far longer shift than she ought to have. The only reason she's here now is Guzman forcibly escorting her from the building, promising to alert her if their intrepid leader decided to return. She falls into bed sometime after midnight; not terribly late except it signifies hour forty-six since she's last slept.<p>

In light of that, exhausted is something of an understatement. She wants to curl in on herself and sleep for the remainder of the day. She can't (her morning patrol starts before the suns up and she refuses to give it up no matter how she feels) but it's comforting to fantasize about. Stress and worry for Taylor keep her from truly resting, plague her with nervous dreams. She's just tired enough to struggle through them.

Obviously, this is the reason she is wrested from her sleep, a crash from her kitchen tearing her from her fitful slumber, her military training kicking into gear. She's awake, her senses sharp before she can register exactly why. Someone hisses a warning. Silence. Almost as if her unexpected visitors expect her to storm out from her bedroom in a hazy late night rage.

Wash considers the penalty for murder, weighs whether or not it would be worth it or if she could live with herself after (at the moment she can answer with a resounding yes. She could most certainly, confidently live with herself), decides it isn't worth it. Instead, she runs a hand tiredly through her hair, swings her legs over the side of her mattress. Hell, she isn't going to get a good night sleeps with Taylor OTG anyway.

She throws an irritable glare towards her bedside clock, ignoring the taunting neon numbers. Three in the morning. Well, three hours sleep was better than nothing, even if she had to be up in another two. Another crash, this one followed by a low chuckle.

Somehow then, she's not surprised to find two men in her kitchen. The cake she's been saving is out on the counter, a generous portion of it missing. Both men have practically frozen, Taylor with a fork full of the confection halfway to his mouth, Shannon bent to pluck something from her fridge. Both have shallow cuts across t heir skin, both are covered with a light skein of dirt. As if her home is the first place they've come after returning to the colony. It's sweet, if you enjoy a good break in.

She'd like to say this is one of the oddest reasons she's had someone break into her house in the dead of night. She cannot, in good faith, make that claim.

"Sir?"

Shannon flashes her a brilliant smile from over the refrigerator door, closes it, "Morning, Wash. You're looking particularly lovely…"

"Shut up, Shannon." He shrugs easily, goes back to pouring himself a glass of milk. Despite her scowl neither of them seems particularly keen on leaving. Jim simply leans against her counter, smiling contently to himself, eats his snack. "What are you doing here?"

Taylor chuckles, finishes his bite of cake, "Thought you could use some company."

"At three in the morning?"

"Don't try and tell me you sleep, Wash," he levels the fork at her playfully. She shrugs. He's leaning so smugly (triumphantly) against her counter with Shannon. At three in the morning, keeping her from the sleep she needs _because_ of him. And damn if she doesn't hate it because he's _right_. She can go back to bed but isn't going to sleep. She never really sleeps unless she can verify his location. Which he's allowed her to do now, even if it means breaking into her home.

She signs, steps towards him, intercepts his fork before it reaches his lips. He flashes a mock scowl as she steals his treat. He simply chuckles when she takes the fork to serve herself another bite, not from the cake, from his piece. Taylor arches an amused brow.

Nathaniel Taylor does not share food, especially of the sugary variety. "You're damn lucky I like you, woman."

"Likewise, sir."

Hell, if he's going to steal her from her sleep she at least deserves his cake. She takes another bite.

* * *

><p><strong>Paperwork<strong>

* * *

><p>On the short list of things he positively despises doing, paperwork ranks pretty well near the top. It's how it's always been. For all his best efforts, Taylor's simply a man of action, at home leading soldiers through impossible situations and winning wars. It's what he's good at. It's how he got where he is today. Hell, he's at home out in that jungle, where things are trying to kill him twenty four hours a day. But paperwork? Well, he's just never taken a shine to it, an unfortunately mutual feeling. Regrettable, considering how much of it his position as colony leader entails.<p>

But he does it anyway, for the good of the colony.

He glances across his office desk at Wash, see's a very similar line of reasoning is running through her mind. She's no more fond of it then him and he's well aware that she regrets ever volunteering (he uses the term loosely. Being _volunteered_ is probably closer to the truth) to assist him. She purses her lips, blows a strand of hair out of her eyes. When she feels him staring, she glances up and flashes him a half-smile smile. They hate this.

What's worse, there's absolutely no way to make the process more enjoyable. They know this from experience.

They'd tried drinks to make it more palatable in the early days of the settlement, when things had been more chaotic. Somehow that only ended with a near nonsensical patrol schedule and requisition forms that neglected basic necessities in favor of…he didn't even know. It had been an odd list that he vaguely remembered finding hilarious when they'd written it. They'd take one look at in the harsh morning light and reached the exact same conclusion with similar scowls.

A second time. They were going to have to do the paperwork a second time.

So alcohol was out of the question.

Over the years they've tried a variety of methods, each with varying degrees of success. They'd tried dinner in each other's homes before starting; found it was little more than an excuse to stay away from their task. After numerous failures they've come to the conclusion that, if they truly want to finish their work, they cannot do a variety of things. Namely: drink, eat, speak, take a break for any length of time, or allow their thoughts to wander even momentarily.

This is a nuisance. And a challenge, truth be told, because they are friends and friends are usually expected to at least register the others presence. If they wish to finish, they cannot do even this. It's also difficult because frankly, there are perhaps a thousand other things he'd rather be doing (Wash included, crude though it is) then paperwork. But it has to be done. For the good of the colony.

That is the only reason, the _only_ reason, why he ignores Wash's foot as it brushes against the inside of his leg. Nothing about her composure changes, her expression remains dully disinterested. If he didn't know her better it could easily be brushed aside as an accident. The second time she does it, he's suspicious. The third, he's convinced.

Lieutenant Alicia Washington, the stoic, the stern, is trying to play footsie with him.

Oh how the mighty have fallen.

When he arches a brow she's unable to suppress the hint of a smile, grins down at her missions statement. He can't help but sigh, gently slides her foot out of his lap, "You're a child sometimes, Wash."

"Yes, sir."

She moves her foot back, "Pay attention." But his tone is hardly frustrated and when he bats her away its with little force. She doesn't look up, just keep smiling, goes about her work.

"Of course, Commander," But she doesn't stop her game. She'll move her leg, he'll shift away. It goes on this way for a bit. By the end of the night, her feet are resting in his lap, one of his hands idly tracing a pattern from her ankle down her knee. Sometimes she'll give a little stretch, brushing against him in a manner that's nothing less than deliberate. She doesn't bother to hide her grin when he catches her.

For the good of the colony. He keeps reminding himself that's why he stays focused.

But damn does he hate paperwork.

* * *

><p><strong>Positive<strong>

* * *

><p>Wash's life reads like a study in the bittersweet. She'd become a soldier, lauded for her skills but had been unable to protect those who needed her most (her brother, her family, Ayani), had fallen in love with a man who's heart belonged solely to another. Made friends only to lose them, kept living but without purpose.<p>

It is how she knows better than to trust her new life. Somehow it's to perfect. The man she loves returns her affections, her home is safe, her friends are safe, her world is _safe_. She's protected the things nearest her heart. And the universe permits this, allows her to go blissfully on.

It's almost enough to lull her into a false security. Almost enough to make her forget. Everything's going so well, why should one more thing raise suspicion?

They hadn't planned her pregnancy, not really. It had simply happened. They'd never really even talked about it, figured both were past that point in their life. They had a colony full of children to tend to. Odd, then, that such a surprise had delighted them so.

It was simply one good thing to add to the others, right? One more positive facet to bring her new life that much closer to perfection. She is, for the first time in years, truly, unconditionally happy.

Perhaps that's where she made her mistake.

She doesn't trip, she doesn't suddenly fall sick or any other number of clichés. One morning she simply wakes up, a hint of pain and then…nothing. Nothing at all. It's simply a feeling of hollowness, a paranoia that has her check herself in to the hospital. She tells herself it's nothing. Just her overactive imagination.

Funny (and she doesn't mean it in the proper sense, not for a moment), how wrong she's been about everything recently.

There are tears in Elisabeth's eyes when she explains the situation, her fingers absently clasping and unclasping her jacket. Wash has simply…lost the child. Nothing more, nothing less. She can't explain why exactly it's happened, until now everything had been progressing fine. She can only wager a guess. Wash isn't terribly young and Taylor is her senior by two decades. Things simply…happened. It takes a moment for the words to even register in her addled mind. Numbness spreads over her conscious mind, a desperate attempt to remain in control. The simple fact of the matter is if she wishes to remain calm she cannot allow herself to feel.

Dr. Shannon squeezes her hand, offers an embrace. Through the nothingness she's enveloped herself with she's aware of the other woman's tears staining her shirt. She wraps an arm around her, remains silent. To any passersby it would appear almost as if the lieutenant's the one offering comfort.

She doesn't tell Taylor, not at first (a part of her knows Shannon will do it), goes home instead. Pours herself a drink and finds she hates she can do so without concern. The amber liquid burns in her throat, offers a cold sort of comfort as she settles herself on her sofa, stares at nothing in particular.

The rational half of her knows its foolish getting upset over such a thing. She'd never known the child, never heard its voice, seen its face, held it. It if was truly sentient it was little more than a stranger to her. You didn't mourn strangers.

The rational side of her tells her it's a good thing. Neither she nor Taylor are young, and their lifestyle is...it just…it's for the best, isn't it? By all rights this is a good thing. A positive change, a mistake set right.

Her rationality sounds desperate even to her own ears, desperately grasping for something to cling to, to keep her from shattering. She's the lieutenant. She's better than this. She's in control. It isn't enough to keep her from leaning her head against her knees, takes unsteady breathes. Whether she likes it or not, she finds her eyes screwed shut, burning. Somewhere, she hears the door open, refuses to look up.

_It's a good thing, it's a good thing, it's for the best…_

She tries to breathe and the sound comes out choked and halting. Taylor (she doesn't have to see him to know it's him) settles beside her wordlessly. Hesitates as if unsure he has the right to touch her. When she doesn't look at him he gathers her to his chest, rests his chin atop her head. Like she's some goddamn child.

"Wash…"

She fists her fingers in his shirt, tries to ignore her tears. Feels his arms tighten around her. Almost too tightly, almost to the point where it's difficult to breathe; she doesn't care. She clings to him and doesn't give a damn if it's weak of her. Taylor's the one man she'll permit to see her in such a state. He pretends not to notice the way her breath hitches as she convulses in his arm. He pretends, for her prides sake, not to be aware of the dampness of her eyes.

"Maybe it's for the best," he mutters, and she pretends not to notice how near his tone is to cracking. She pretends not to notice his tears in her hair.

She holds him to her more desperately, chokes back a sob, "Maybe."

They both pretend they aren't lying.

* * *

><p><strong>Negative<strong>

* * *

><p>The first time Elizabeth Shannon tells her she's pregnant, Wash asks her to repeat herself. Not in the quizzical sort of way or even the optimistic my dreams have come true way. It is, rather, the "<em>god help me, you better be lying and damn if I don't hate liars<em>," sort of way. The other woman is too ecstatic for her to notice.

When she tells Taylor later that evening she's half expecting for him to look, she doesn't know, _disappointed_ in her. They hadn't planned for this to happen and neither of them is exactly young. She expects him to storm out of their home, returns hours later smelling of liquor and tell her Jim has convinced him that he can live with the situation or some other cliché. But he doesn't do any of those things.

He simply stares at her for a moment while the news sinks in. He practically leaps over the table to close the distance between them, grabs her shoulders and kisses her soundly. When he pulls away, he's smiling, though she can see the hint of worry still buried in his eyes. His first attempt raising a child had been painful. But he loves her and will love any part of her (of _them_) just as entirely. How could she expect him to regret that?

For a while it seems like she's the only damn person in Terra Nova not cart wheeling in joy.

She can't help but feel a little irritated (with the situation and herself) that this has been sprung on her. And she doesn't particularly enjoy the morning sickness or the weight gain (though through sheer force of will she's able to keep the later to a minimal. The former she has less success with.). Or the fact that her unborn child is already demonstrating its father penchant for causing havoc, kicking and turning almost constantly.

She'll admit to feeling love for the thing. And she'll admit that, deep down, she's enjoying this. Enjoying the closeness it offers her to Taylor. Enjoying the simple, easy, entirely too common joy of setting up a nursery (dinosaur themed, of course), discussing their future.

But it's always bittersweet. A part of her expects it all to come crashing down on her. Neither she nor Taylor is meant for domestic bliss. They are soldiers, tried and true. This is little more than an intermittent moment of peace before the next wave of chaos breaks on their shore. She keeps bracing herself for the dream to collapse.

So when Taylor looks up from his reading, gathers her to his chest, she smiles. And she continues to smile as they discuss their child. (He's convinced it's a girl. Insists on it, even, with the most ridiculous smile on his face. It breaks her heart a little. Because a girl would be like its mother, wouldn't it? He won't have to risk another Lucas. She never mentions she'd prefer a boy.) But even half asleep against the man she loves, in their home, she can't shake the feeling of dread.

The months pass (relatively) uneventfully. The fear never fades entirely but it becomes easier to manage. Taylor's been through this before. She's gone through situation far more strenuous. She can do this.

In the end, it hurts like hell. She's been knifed, shot, burned and whatever else and can say without a shred of doubt that labor _hurts_. She comes dangerously close to breaking her superiors hand when he attempts (its ill advised, admittedly) to pacify her.

But as she lays recovering, her hair still plastered to her forehead, undoubtedly looking like hell, she can't shake the feeling on contentment. Despite the cramped confines of the bed, Taylor's laying beside her, half of her resting against his chest, their child (their _son_) sleeping in his arms.

She knows all parents are innately inclined to compliment their kid's looks. But he's just….beautiful. It difficult to tell so early on, but he has her hair. His father's eyes.

She's exhausted and, for the better part of the next few years, won't be getting enough sleep. They're both too old to have a child. Their lifestyle isn't conducive to it.

But lying beside the man she loves, watching her son sleep, for perhaps the first time in her life, Alicia Washington comes to a conclusion. No matter what the future brings, at the moment she can find absolutely nothing negative with her situation.

* * *

><p>Sky: HAHAHAHA! BAM! Did I switch the titles of the pregnancy snippets in an attempt to throw you off which one of them was angsty? YES. I regret nothing. Although, I feel horrible for writing it (and preferring it over the happy one…), pleasedon'thurtme.<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **YEY! I get to write the light, happy fic again! And you know what we need before the finale? Some unapologetically fluffy little snippets. So here you go. Be happy BAMF fans!

"**Dishes" **is dedicated to my lovely Canadian twin. Sorry it's so disgustingly sugary, Inu. :D

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><p><strong>Literature<strong>

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><p>As useful as technology is there's something undeniably different about reading a book off of a lighted screen and reading a physical copy of it. It's something they both, the Commander and Lieutenant, agree on. Over the course of their years they've both amassed an impressive collection of old books, the pages worn, colored by time and the fingers that have thumbed through the tomes. They'd left them behind in 2149, realized they'd have nowhere to store them until the colony took shape.<p>

Alicia had simply made peace with the notion that she'd never see them again. It had been disappointing but she's been so busy over the last few years that she's had little time to dwell on such a thing. So when she'd seen crates of the things being brought through the portal she'd arched a brow. Taylor had presented them to her with the aplomb of a penitent lover (though they had been everything but that at the time), dropped them easily in her home. They'd returned to their old patterns almost immediately.

Without discussion, she'd leave a book on his desk in the morning. She'd find another waiting for her in her office. Once finished, they were wordlessly returned to their owner. They'd operated in much the same way during their tenure in the service; see no reason to cease now.

They are both terribly fond of literature. Stories of faraway places, historic accounts, devour the information. It's a solitary endeavor, however. Both accept this.

So when they finally are a (she cringes at the use of the word, finds it's impossibly simple and far too casual to describe what they really are) a couple, and they've combined their respective collections, both recognize that they have no place disturbing the other's reading. Those precious moments are entirely private.

She isn't surprised then, when she returns from a long day of patrol, her muscles aching and covered in dirt, to find Taylor reclining easily on their couch, a book in his hands. He offers her a nod and she heads to the shower, eager to rid herself of the amalgamation of sweat and mud clinging to her heated skin. When she returns, her dark hair hanging damply about her shoulders, he remains seated, still silent. She plucks a book from the shelf, moves near his feet. Raises a brow. He moves his feet obligingly, allows her to take a seat.

That's how it starts. Reading _near_ each other. It's still private, but they are willing to permit the other to share these moments. That's how it starts.

The next time, they arrive home at the same time. Shower together (just shower, it's been a very long day, and neither are overtly interested in anything other than falling in bed); once they emerge she heads to the kitchen. Pours them each a glass of wine, red and warm, tasting like a crisp winter morning. The book is back in his hands and she offers him the beverage, waits until his fingers wrap around the stem of the glass before settling down on the opposite side of the couch.

Taylor regards her silently for a long moment. Then simply reaches across to her, fingers clasping her shoulder. She's curious but doesn't remark when he draws her towards him, till she's almost reclining across his chest. He smiles down at her, wraps one arm around her waist, uses the other to hold his novel.

To her surprise, he begins reading aloud, his voice smooth and powerful, the sound vibrating through their chests as he continues. It's strangely soothing and she allows herself to relax against him, simply listens as he paints elegant pictures for her. He's an excellent orator, passionate, moves through the passages at a languid pace. It brings her an undeniable pleasure, watching him, how his expressions shift, how his tone changes with the mood of the piece. She presses a grateful kiss to his shoulder when he finishes.

It goes like this for the next few days, slowly replaces the ritual they've observed for years. Every time she seats herself at the end of the sofa, waits for him to motion her over. Every time, he reaches out, tugs her over to rest against him.

When he finds her waiting for him already, her back against the arm rest he simply smirks, shakes his head. Their book (and she can't help but smile at that) waiting in her lap. "You have something in mind, Wash?"

She smiles, waits for him take a seat. Hooks her fingers in the collar of his shirt and gives a little pull. She lays back, takes him with her. His amusement is obvious but he's willing to oblige her. He shifts so he lies on his back between her legs, head pillowed against her breasts. She presses a kiss to the top of his head (and hates how damn sentimental it makes her), opens their book.

Tries to ignore how he smiles at her as she reads. Finds she can't and doesn't really give a damn.

**Car Pool**

It's a generally accepted fact that Taylor trusts his lieutenant with everything up to, and including, his life. It's an almost unbreakable trust, soul consuming in its intensity, awe inspiring to behold. He's pulled her from the ashes of a dying country, breathed life back into her when her heart simply refused to beat, has taken bullets for her. She, in turn, has slaved beyond conscious thought, till her fingers bled, till exhaustion numbed her very being, for his cause, has mended wounds that ought to have been fatal, has crossed millions of years of time to stand at his side. They trust each other with anything, everything, would do anything, anything at all, for the other.

Except share a vehicle. That's where Taylor draws the line.

Wash has a _peculiar_ approach to driving. She isn't bad, per say, just…interesting.

Over the course of their relationship, he's had the…pleasure (he uses that word exceptionally loosely and with a healthy dose of irony) of riding with her three times. The first time they'd been weaving through a jungle and he'd appreciated her quick reflexes. A part of him is entirely convinced that it'd been little more than a ploy to lure him into a false sense of complacency. The second time, they'd been on leave and she'd offered to take him and a few of the boys out for drinks.

He's a strong man, has stared death in the face more times than he cares to count, has suffered through tortures the human mind cannot begin to comprehend, and yet he can safely say he's rarely been as terrified as he was sitting in the passenger seat beside her. It isn't so much that she drives fast (which she does) but that somehow, in that stubborn mind of hers, the notion of pulling up, or braking of any variety, really, is considered a weakness. So in and out of traffic she weaves at a whiplash inducing pace, oblivious to the horrified, sickeningly pale faces of her companions. She had hopped out of the car, blithely unaware of the fact she'd somehow, unintentionally, brought four hardened soldiers dangerously near tears.

The third time, he'd been mercifully unconscious.

And so when the time comes for him to head into the jungle, Shannon and Wash in tow, he pointedly ignores the Rover prepared for them and heads for a second. Jim quirks a brow, "Aren't you coming, sir?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, Shannon."

"And you're going to do that from….over there?"

Wash gives an inelegant snort, tosses her head, "Give it up, Shannon. The Commander," she applies the most teasing lilting sort of tone to his title, almost as if mocking him for his (entirely rational) fear, "Refuses to ride with me."

Shannon is instantly suspicious, glances between the two of them, "And why's that?" The lieutenant shrugs. Her superior officer lets out a long sigh.

"Wash drives…aggressive."

"Aggressive by human standards or Taylor standards?" The jibe has both of their heads snapping up, glaring. Admittedly, he isn't the most placid driver but he sure as hell doesn't have anything on Wash. The lack of a reply has Shannon chuckling to himself, "Point taken." He smiles, turns to his friend, "Should I be worried about driving with you, Wash?"

"No."

"Yes," Taylor replies at the same moment, smirking. It earns him a baleful scowl. He continues blithely on, ignoring the way she inches towards him, "You ever play chicken as a kid, Shannon?" The younger man nods. "Well, Wash has a standing game of it with every object on the road."

"He's exaggerating, Shannon."

"I seem to remember you almost wrecking a rover when you refused to pull up, lieutenant."

She shrugs, "It was going to break first."

"Rock's don't move, Wash."

"And neither did the Carno once he hit it," she crosses her arms across her chest, tone undeniably smug. She's right, the unfortunate dinosaur had _not_ moved after her tactics. Of course, neither had the soldier's unfortunate enough to have been in her rover at the time. It had taken almost an hour to coax them out of the vehicle. "Come on, Shannon, we've got places to be." She gives his arm a pat, swings easily into the driver's seat.

Jim glances between the two of them again. Takes a withering breath. Evidently decides that Taylor must be exaggerating (that's what they all think, poor bastards) and climbs in beside the lieutenant. "Guess we'll see you there, sir." And off they zoom.

When they return to the colony later that evening, Taylor is all smiles. Wash's rover comes to a smooth stop behind him, bespeaking the skill of its driver. Skill one would believe noticeably absent if one judged solely by the expression of the vehicles passenger. The Commander leans easily against the side of Wash's rover, grins at the sheriff still clutching his seat.

"How'd it go out there, son?"

She'd nearly run down a Slasher, sped over a ditch at a speed that could only be criminal, had spun them in a complete circle no less than three times to avoid the legs of an irate predator and had used her breaks a grand total of zero times throughout the whole of the ordeal. Shannon stares at him, opens his mouth, shuts it. Finally settles on a simple:

"Wash…drives aggressive."

He pats the younger man on the shoulder, "There we are."

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><p><strong>Dishes<strong>

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><p>Dinner is always an enjoyable occasion in their home. She's a decent enough cook (he's rubbish, but neither of them bring it up), and he stays with her as she works, reads at the island in the kitchen. Their conversation is always lively and it's a genuinely pleasant thing. Wash hasn't ever found any real pleasure in eating but she does look forward to the meals they share.<p>

What she does not look forward to, however, is what comes after dinner.

Taylor moves past her, sets their plates in the sink to join the pots and pans. She frowns at them, mutters darkly. Her Commanding officer leans against the counter next to her. "It's your turn, Wash."

Despite her best efforts, her voice does come out as rather pleading, "I made dinner."

"You _always_ make dinner."

"Mmm, because I don't enjoy being poisoned."

He chuckles, "I don't see how that's my fault." She groans, steps towards the sink. Removes her coat and tosses it over a chair. It is indeed her turn to do the dishes. And unlike her Commanding Officer, she can't simply pull rank to get out of it. The bastard remains where he stands, smirks as she applies soap to her hands. He pulls up a chair, content to simply watch her go about the much loathed task. He's feeling rather vindictive and delights in how she silently fumes. And, he'll never admit, not under oath, not under torture, not under threat of death, just how much it pleases him, seeing her go about such a mundane task.

She glances up, notices him staring. Grins to herself and, suffering an uncharacteristically childish urge, cups a bit of soapy water in her hands and lobs it towards him. His eyes widen and he manages to avoid the large part of it but it leaves flecks of soap across his shirt. Wash raises a brow, places a challenging fist on her hip.

He takes a threatening step forward.

She applies more soap to her hands, not at all phased.

Taylor closes the distance faster than she originally anticipates, reaches behind her to snatch one of their glasses and unceremoniously dumps the liquid down her front. Is rewarded with a soapy hand giving him a brusque shove. He thinks he hears her laugh, but it's difficult to say through the commotion. He assumes his stoic lieutenant has simply lost her mind as she flings more liquid at him. In the face of such blatant aggression, he can do naught but respond. It's self defense, nothing more. Wash lets out a disgruntled sound when he seizes the soap from behind her, smears it liberally across her exposed skin.

"Clean the dishes not me, damn it!" She manages, attempting to bat his hands away without success. In the end she simply surrenders to the inevitable, engages him with all that military precision she's lauded for.

Somehow they both end up splayed across a soaked floor, covered in suds. And lo, the sink full of dishes remains. Wash flashes a wicked sort of smile from her prone position atop him, throws a glance towards the sink. Leans forward to nearly purr against his ear, "It's your turn now." She sucks lightly at his lower lip before rising, leaves the kitchen with a sway to her hips that was most certainly not present beforehand.

He's left lying alone on the kitchen floor, soaked to the bone. Glances towards the still unfortunately full sink. Dishes he now needs to clean.

He regrets nothing.

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><p><strong>Silence<strong>

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><p>He's never had much use for words. He's good with them, undoubtedly, knows that his speeches inspire, knows that he has a talent for it. But he's been a solider longer than he's been a politician (he still can't make peace with that, he's a leader, that's all, not a politician) and flowery rhetoric just seems like a waste of time. Some would call him blunt; he calls it truthful. And while it earned him all sorts of honors in the military it certainly hadn't done him any favors in his personal life.<p>

He'd driven more than a few women off with his behavior. His natural charisma, his good looks, had been enough to draw them to him but he'd lacked the control of his tongue when he was younger. Ayani had regarded him with a curious expression when he'd first turned it on her, asked him, calmly, to explain himself. It was one of the reasons they worked so perfectly together. She'd understood where he came from, understood his patterns, and didn't hold it against him.

It's another area where Wash differs from his first wife. Ayani had asked for an explanation. Wash simply smirks, either replies in kind or simply tells him to shut the hell up. Or shuts him up herself.

For the most part, they don't need words. It's a refreshing change of pace, having a partner who understands that actions are far more telling than elegant oration. He'll alter his pace, slow slightly when he hears her approaching so that she can catch him. She'll brush her fingers lightly against his when she moves by. It's their way of saying good morning, saying they care.

When he returns from being OTG with Shannon, when Elisabeth rushes forward to embrace her husband, whispers endearments against his skin, the lieutenant simply smiles, reaches as if she intends to brush his face, stops herself before their skin comes into contact. She doesn't say she's concerned, doesn't say she's glad to have him back. Simply smiles, dark eyes warm as they fix solely on him, catalogue the abrasions on his face.

He doesn't tell her he loves her. It's entirely likely she'd scowl at him if he did.

Instead, he watches her. Watches as she goes about the most absurdly simple task and can't shake the feeling that she's one of the loveliest creatures he's ever seen, let alone deserved. Sometimes she'll catch him doing so and roll her eyes. In those moments he'll cross to her, take her chin in hand, press a gentle kiss to her lips. He never allows her to deepen it, breezes past her. Knows that she remains where she stands without looking, fingers pressed to her lips. No matter how many times he does it, she always touches her fingers to her lips as if the sensation is something she'll never adapt to.

She doesn't tell him she loves him. She can barely admit it to herself.

Instead, she waits for him to pass her, absorbed in whatever task he's devoted himself to. Gives a light tug on his holster, draws him to her for a brief embrace. It's silly, it's childish, it's impossible and she hates herself for it, but she never can resist the urge to smile at him. And he always looks so amazed, so in awe, when she does. It's an expression reserved entirely for him. A complete openness, a willingness to let him see, if only momentarily, beneath each of her guards, each of the wards she's placed around her heart. She'll lean up, press a kiss to his chin and move away. Knows that he'll remaining staring after her for a moment and adds a little extra bounce to her steps. Hears him chuckle behind her.

He doesn't have much use for words. And she's never been overtly fond of them either.

It suits them both perfectly well.

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><p><strong>Fairy Tale<strong>

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><p>Alicia Washington does not believe in fairy tales. She doesn't believe in happily after, she doesn't believe in knights in shining armor, doesn't believe in riding off into the distant sunset. She doesn't believe in true love, souls mates, doesn't believe in hope against all odds, doesn't believe in goods inherent victory over evil. She doesn't believe in a lot of things.<p>

And each of them crashes down on her head as she lays, her body aching, bruised and broken, across the floor of the command center. Blood streams from her forehead, trickles down the bridge of her nose, burns as it drips in her eyes. It's agonizing even being conscious. Moving is simply out of the question. Her mind screams that it's absolutely impossible, that if she tries it will simply give out on her.

So she does; she rallies what little strength she has left to fight her way to her knees, remains in that position. Raises her head, all defiance, and grins, positively goddamn _beams _at her captors, laughs because, honestly, what the hell can they do to her now? What is there left for them to do? Her laugh rings through the chamber, echoes about them, a mockery of mirth the entirety of the sound twisted, bitter. A soldier stares at her as if she's gone mad and she doesn't wonder for a second if maybe it's a little true.

Because she's been here for a little over a month now, thirty-eight days, full of whatever the hell Lucas Taylor dreams up that morning, whatever passing fancy flits through that goddamn crazy head of his, and she still hopes. And to hope, to continue hoping despite it all, can be nothing other than insanity. She closes her eyes, tries to block out the world as it dips and sways, tries to still the retching sensation in her stomach, trades the dull colors of reality for the pleasant memories behind her eyes.

Nathaniel is always there, always waiting for her there. Always, and she hates him a little for it. For smiling so warmly, for extending a hand to her every time she falls (and she realizes this does little for her sanity. She's conjured some otherworldly confidant, is essentially speaking to herself), for still believing in her. When her ribs ache, when she's too exhausted to even consider fighting, it is Nathaniel urging her on, her CO's voice insistent, strong.

She's always followed her orders. She's isn't about to stop now (even if it is only a voice in her head).

Washington doesn't believe in knights in shining armor, doesn't believe in hope against all odds. And yet she finds herself unable to forsake the later. Despite the pain, despite all the evidence to the contrary, she still hopes. She still believes Taylor will return for her, a knight in shining armor from one of those ancient stories. She isn't foolish enough, naïve enough, or even romantic enough, to fancy it would be something as dramatic as riding a white stallion over the horizon but at the moment she's not feeling particularly picky. She'd settle simply for seeing his face. Hearing a voice that she hasn't summoned.

But this isn't some ancient fairy tale, is it? It's reality, and Wash is nothing if not a realist. She isn't some defenseless princess, and Taylor isn't some knight, and there's no happy ending waiting for them over the horizon. Her knight isn't coming; tomorrow will be another day, full of whatever Lucas fancies. The notion brings with it a soul rending sort of pain; she closes her eyes to brace against it. Finds Taylors face waiting there for her. Imagines she hears his voice. The pain fades. She coughs, spits a mouthful of blood.

Somewhere outside there's an impressive crash. It's followed by another and then another. Booted feet in the hall. She knows she should look but she's beyond caring and doesn't think she has the energy to manage it. She hears voices, can't make out what they're saying, keeps her eyes shut. Taylor's behind her eyes and that's where she's staying.

The guards let out a surprised howl as something connects with their skulls. She still refuses to look. Lucas has pulled tricks like this on her before and she won't allow herself to hope. The newcomer stops beside her, kneels. Her heart screams in her chest as he speaks, tone low, conversational, "Evening, lieutenant."

Alicia Washington's eyes open halfway. Fix on her Commanders familiar face. It's tired, a bit of blood dripping down the side of his head, dirt smeared across his handsome features. The black of his field armor standing out starkly in the grey of the chamber. She almost reaches a hand up to touch his face, stops herself before she can, almost chokes on a sob. If this is another one Lucas' tricks then the bastards gotten much better at his mind games. "Sir, it can't…" she shakes her head, presses her hand to her forehead. It's all in her head; she's imagining this. She's finally lost it. "You can't…I've gone insane, haven't I?"

He chuckles, takes her hand in his own. He's warm, so warm, so real. He feels so damn _real_. "Some might accuse you of it. Rushing off into danger like that." It's openly disapproving. It's so him, just like him, so real, and it sends a pang of agony through her. Her tone is miserable when she speaks.

"If it is you, sir, you can't be here. Lucas…" her protests sound weak even to her own ears. The not-Nathaniel simply shakes his head, wraps an arm around her waist, the other beneath her knees, gathers her to his chest. Carries her like some blushing bride, some innocent princess, someone entirely _not_ Wash. She considers fighting but is too weak to manage it. Instead, she simply stares up at towards his face. Undoubtedly heroic, determined, handsome despite the grime, despite the blood. Hope wells in her chest, hope that this is more than a dream. She brushes a finger against his chest, "Why?"

Taylor pauses, stares at her, blue eyes blazing, "I decided to take the advice you gave Shannon. I'm saving my family." And she doesn't give a damn how weak it might make her. She feels tears well in her eyes with his words, buries her face and stifles a sob. Because it _is _him. It's him, it's him, it's him, and he's come for her.

Alicia Washington doesn't believe in fairy tales. Doesn't believe in happy endings, or any of that idealistic nonsense. She's a realist, through and through.

Her knight in shining armor, clad in black rather than white, comes for her regardless.


End file.
